The Wrong Room

The nurse locked his mobile hospital bed in place, causing it to shudder. Mr. Harold Fletcher winced as pain shot down his leg.

“Careful, lass,” he grumbled. “This blasted leg’s sensitive.”

The nurse’s tired face softened. “Sorry, Mr. Fletcher. I just need to adjust your IV.”

“Bah.” Harold scowled. “Why’d you have to move me? I was perfectly comfortable where I was.”

“This is where the patients wait for surgery, sir. You’ll have to stay in this room until then,” the nurse replied.

“Room,” he scoffed. It was hardly that. The walls were nothing but faded blue curtains, thin as tissue paper. He could hear everything: shoes squeaking, carts rattling, distant voices murmuring.

“Where’s my hat?” he demanded. “And my cane?”

“The paramedics didn’t bring them,” the nurse said gently. “And you won’t be needing those for a while. You’ve fractured your hip.”

Harold waved her off. “Alright, alright. Get out of here then.”

“I’ll let the doctors know you’re settled,” she said as she left.

The curtain slinked shut.

Harold sighed, grateful to have a semblance of solitude once again. He’d lived alone his whole life. Never married. Never had kids. “Too troublesome,” he’d always say. Others thought it was lonely but Harold quite liked the quiet. Liked knowing where everything was. Liked control.

He’d lost that this morning, slipped on his front steps. Left him helpless and humiliated. His neighbor called the ambulance despite his reluctance. Now he was here. In a hospital.

Harold hated hospitals.

He reached a tentative hand to the top of his head and felt the familiar smoothness of his bald spot.

“Blasted paramedics. I told them to grab the hat.” Harold lowered his hand and tugged at the thin blanket. “Kids these days don’t listen…”

The curtain rustled. Harold's eyes darted toward it. Two pairs of shoes stopped just outside. Voices followed, low and hushed. Harold’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer, straining to hear.

“No family listed?” one said.

Harold held his breath.

“No next of kin,” the other replied. “He’s listed as a donor.”

Donor. Harold’s mouth went dry. Next of kin? His fingers curled into the blanket.

“Prep for tonight,” the first voice continued. “If we’re going to proceed.”

“The harvest window is narrow,” the other added. “Long waiting list. We can’t delay.”

A prickle of unease worked its way up Harold’s spine. Harvest? Tonight? He tried to shift, to sit up, but his hip screamed in protest. He sucked in a breath, teeth clenched in an effort to stay quiet.

“Prep the operations room,” one said. “I'll start the paperwork.”

A cart rattled past, drowning out whatever was said next. Then they were gone.

Harold lay still, their words swirling around in his head. No family. Donor. Tonight. Were they talking about him? They had to be. Harold's late friend Dave had warned him about this years prior. His words replayed in his mind.

“They’re a slimy bunch, always wanting more money. And they’ll get it, even if it means taking what doesn’t belong to them.”

Harold understood now. They wanted his organs. “Dammit,” he whispered, dread creeping into his voice. “But I’m not dead yet…”

Panic bloomed in his chest as a haunting realization struck him. The surgery. It had to be a hoax. They would get him vulnerable, laid out on the table. Sedated, so he couldn’t fight back. Harold imagined sharp steel instruments, bright lights, and masked faces looming over him.

Anger and fear surged together, choking him. Harold gripped his chest. He had to do something. He had to get a grip. He forced himself to breathe until his shallow breaths became slow and controlled.

His hand went to the bald patch again. He cursed under his breath. The hat had always felt like armor. Without it he felt exposed… Old.

Harold glanced at the curtains again, the thin blue veil. A flimsy barrier. If I slip through, maybe I can… He vanquished the thought with a wince. Even a slow crawl would take forever, he would be caught. He would have to try to walk.

The thought made Harold’s stomach churn. Walk. On a fractured hip. He looked down at his useless leg. Even shifting sent a sharp warning through his body. He clenched his jaw, listening. Somewhere close, a metal cart rattled. Wheels squeaked. Someone laughed. He was surrounded but all alone. He couldn’t ask for help. There was nobody to trust.

Harold gritted his teeth and attempted to prop himself up. He suppressed a yowl as hot pain ran through his body. Sharp, like electricity. He tried to ignore it and locked his eyes on the IV stand beside him. Tall. Metal with wheels. Maybe he could use it. He wrapped his fingers around it and tugged. Pain flared white-hot through his hip, stealing his breath. The stand rattled uselessly. He gasped, letting go and collapsing onto his back. His heart hammering.

“Think, Harold,” he whispered. His voice sounded thin, barely his own. Despair crept in, eating away at his resolve. He felt exposed, weak, and vulnerable.

Harvest. Tonight. Their words echoed inside his head, like a relentless drumbeat. At last, he broke.

“They got me.” Harold said with a forced laugh. He was the perfect victim: unable to leave, no family, no one to notice if he vanished behind a curtain forever.

Blasted hospitals.

Dave had been right; they were all the same and they were coming for him.

Harold’s mind spun, grasping for something steady, but there was nothing. This was it. The end of the line. No time to set things in order. Just the curtains, a bed, and the aching awareness that his life had narrowed down to these last few moments. He ran through his years like a checklist: work, home, silence. No legacy. No one was waiting for him in the other room. Harold felt strangely hollow. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of being alone. When he was gone, the world would not pause.

Then, without warning, the curtain slid open. Harold sucked in a breath, every muscle locking as two doctors stepped inside. He stared at them, jaw set. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

One doctor glanced at Harold, then down at his clipboard.

He frowned. “This patient’s awake.”

The other looked at Harold as well, then checked the room number.

A pause.

“Oh.”

They stepped back and began to close the curtain.

“Sorry - Wrong room.”